I Have To Go
by SakeTeriyaki
Summary: This is Christian's story before he left for Monmartre. It is told from his point of view. R&R please!!!
1. Father & Son

A gray-hair, elderly man is looking at a picture of a younger man. He is alone and quiet, but his voice soon reaches out into the dark depths of the dreary room, accompanied by a guitar.  
  
Man, singing: It's not time to make a change, just relax, take it easy.  
  
You're still young, that's your fault.  
  
There's so much you have to know.  
  
Find a girl, settle down.  
  
If you want to you can marry.  
  
Look at me, I am old but I'm happy.  
  
As the song fades, a younger male voice begins to speak.  
  
"I left behind everything familiar this morning. I boarded a train with the intentions of living among the Bohemians of Monmartre, a small section of Paris, France."  
  
The older man sings again: I was once like you are now.  
  
And I know that it's not easy to be calm when you've found something going on.  
  
But take your time, think a lot.  
  
Why, think of everything you've got,  
  
For you will still be here tomorrow but your dreams may not.  
  
The older voice fades away as the younger one begins to sing:  
  
How can I try to explain, 'cause when I do he turns away again.  
  
It's always been the same, same old story.  
  
From the moment I could talk, I was ordered to listen.  
  
Now there's a way and I know that I have to go away.  
  
I know I have to go.  
  
Music plays in the background as the young man speaks.  
  
"I was destined to be the president of my father's company, but the world around me was changing, and I wanted to change with it. I dreamed of writing about truth, beauty, freedom, and love. On the evening of my father's retirement, I told him I was leaving for France."  
  
(Flashback of father looking at his son with an concerned face.)  
  
Father: It's not time to make a change.  
  
Just sit down, take it slowly.  
  
You're still young, that's your fault. There's so much you have to go through.  
  
Find a girl, settle down. If you want, you can marry.  
  
Look at me, I am old but I'm happy.  
  
While the father sang his part, the son was singing his.  
  
Son: Away, away, away.  
  
I know I have to make this decision alone—no.  
  
The older man looked at his son with a stern look, "Think of everything here, Christian! You don't want to go and live in Monmartre! It is a true village of sin!"  
  
The son began to sing again: All the times that I've cried, keeping all the things I knew inside.  
  
It's hard, but it's harder to ignore it.  
  
If they were right I'd agree.  
  
But it's them they know, not me.  
  
Now there's a way and I know that I have to go away.  
  
I know I have to go.  
  
While his son sang, so did the father: Stay, stay, stay.  
  
Why must you go and make this decision alone?  
  
"In my heart, I felt that I was right. This was my decision. I had to leave if I wanted to face the world. My future depended on it. Sure, I knew my father wouldn't be happy, but he'd understand my feelings. After all, he was once my age. I can still remember him telling me, 'Christian, you need to get out into the world and experience things for how they really are.' I looked up to this man, and expected that I would be just like him. But when he told me that I was to inherit his business, I told him that I wanted something else. How was I to know that my lot in life was to bend to the will of my superiors?"  
  
Song Used: "Father & Son" by Cat Stevens  
  
Author's Note: This first chapter of this story is based on the director's commentary that you can play during the DVD and also from reading the rough drafts of the scripts which are also available on the DVD. All the credit goes to the writers of the script, all I did was add on to it. Please, no flames! Spare me! 


	2. Lonely Boy

"The train ride was very interesting. I was afraid of everything. I had never traveled outside of London before, and my head was filled with doubt. What if I lost everything in Monmartre? Should I go back to my father's house? I began to think that I should return home, but doing that would signal a victory for my father, and I would still be unhappy. I sat on my seat as the train pulled into the last station before continuing to Paris. My mind was clouded as I picked up my things and started to leave the train. Suddenly, the words of my uncle filled my head. He was the man who had given me the courage to leave London and to go to Paris. It was he who told me stories of the people of Monmartre."  
  
Uncle, singing: Lonely boy, get up and fly  
  
Lonely boy, get up and try  
  
Everyone knows you got what it takes  
  
All you need is one or two good breaks  
  
Lonely boy, this is your time  
  
Lonely boy, you're on the line  
  
This just could be the only throw you got  
  
Get on up and give it your best shot  
  
You gotta make it lonely boy  
  
You gotta take it lonely boy  
  
Oh do da do da day  
  
You gotta do it lonely boy  
  
Get to it lonely boy  
  
Oh take it all the way  
  
Lonely boy, you are the one  
  
Lonely boy, your chance has come  
  
Destiny gonna put you to the test  
  
Face the music and disregard the rest  
  
"His words held me back, and I sat back down in my seat. My uncle was right. This could be my only chance to live my dream. If I returned to London, I'd be sitting in an office all day observing people. That was not my wish, and I impatiently awaited for the train to move again."  
  
"Next stop: Paris!" the conductor announced as the train slowly crept away from the station.  
  
"It was going to be a long ride, so I reclined in my seat and began to reminisce about my life."  
  
[FLASHBACK]  
  
I don't remember much of my childhood. I was born on September 20, 1875. My parents were Nathaniel and Roberta James, and we lived in a beautiful, ivy- covered house in London. The English were having their own Industrial Revolution, and my grandfather and father started their own steel company. When my grandfather died, he left everything to my father. My uncle, Rupert, was considered the misfit of the family, and was left with nothing.  
  
When I was five years old, my mother gave birth to a daughter, Elizabeth. I was extremely jealous of my sister, since she was getting all the attention from my mother. Of course, I wasn't getting attention from anyone except my uncle. Since he had no money to his name and couldn't afford to live on his own, my father was gracious enough to let him live with us. I spent a lot of time with my Uncle Rupert, listening to his stories of his worldwide travels before he "lost it all" as he put it. I admired him for doing that, but even from that young age, I was told that my lot in life was to inherit the company.  
  
I did the things that most normal young boys did: I rode horses, hunted, and played with other boys my age. Sometimes my mother would take Elizabeth and I on a picnic, and we had fun wading in the creek and laughing. I was enrolled in a private academy for boys when I was six years old, and it was located in Scotland. It was the loneliest time of my life. Not only had my parents abandoned me, but also there was no one at school I could relate to. The only comfort I found was in the weekly letter I would get from my uncle or the monthly ones I would receive from my parents. At boarding school, I learned grammar, literature, history, math, and science. Math, grammar, and history were the most important subjects, and I tried my hardest to receive good grades in those classes.  
  
Holidays were my favorite time of the year, especially Christmas. I remember the Christmas of my tenth year. Elizabeth was five years old and growing up fast. My mother looked pale and weak, as if she hadn't slept in days. My father was working late on Christmas Eve, and my uncle was sitting by the hearth, smoking a pipe. When my father returned home, we gathered around the hearth to tell stories and sing. My mother, with tears in her eyes, sang the lullaby that had so often put my sister and I to sleep.  
  
Mother, singing: If you see me speak without words  
  
Know that I am speaking of the wind  
  
And if you see my words like wind  
  
Know that soft tongues cut through stone  
  
And if you see my tongue like stone  
  
Know its wisdom lies in silence  
  
And if you see my wisdom in silence  
  
Then with you I will always be  
  
And if you doubt my true love is true  
  
Just see how you have no mockings on your hands  
  
And if you see you wear no chains  
  
You are free like poor men  
  
And if you see your freedom in being poor  
  
Pleased you'll be with the treasure of your mind  
  
And if you're pleased with the treasure of your mind  
  
Then with you I will always be  
  
And if you wonder how it is that I left  
  
Just watch the sunset slip away  
  
And as you watch that sun slip away  
  
Know some things are better left unseen  
  
And if you know things are better left unseen  
  
Then night shall carry you in her arms  
  
And if you see I carry you in my arms  
  
Then with you I will always be  
  
With you I will always be  
  
I will always remember that Christmas. Only a few days after the joyous celebration of the birth of Christ, my mother died. The doctors found nothing medically wrong with her, but something in my heart told me that she knew she would be leaving us soon. I felt like an orphan. My mother was gone. The night after her funeral, I crawled into my bed and watched the snowfall silently.  
  
'She always loved the snow.' I thought to myself. She said that the snow fell in preparation for spring. To me, the snow symbolized the end of her life, and I never wanted to see snow again.  
  
Songs Used:  
  
"Lonely Boy" by Elton John  
  
"Circle Song (With You I Will Always Be)" by Jewel 


	3. Foolish Dreams

After my mother's death, my father became stricter and more stubborn towards Elizabeth and I. He kept reminding us that we needed a mother in our lives, but for some odd reason, he never remarried. Perhaps the loss of my mother was too great for him. I was sent back to my boarding school, and Elizabeth was enrolled in a local academy for girls. I started to notice a strange feeling inside of my body. For some reason, the girls who strolled past my father's house in the summer seemed beautiful to me. During the summer holiday of my 12th year, my father sent for me. As I sat in his office, my father paced about the room, feverishly smoking his pipe.  
  
"Christian, there comes a time in every man's life when…" he started, but stopped to regain his thoughts.  
  
"When what Father?" I asked. I wasn't completely sure what he was talking about.  
  
"Son, it's time that you learned about…" he started again, but stopped.  
  
"Father, do you want to talk to me about the special relationship between men and women?" I finally asked, seeing a look of relief and surprise on my father's face.  
  
"Yes, unless you have something to say." He responded.  
  
"Oh Dad, I already know all about it. What do you think I do in the library at school and here? You have all those medical books upstairs and they have some at school. When there is nothing else to read, I look at them." I told my father, who sat behind his desk with a stern look on his face.  
  
"Very well then, um… why don't you go work on your mathematics." He said, looking through his papers.  
  
I nodded and headed back to my room. As always, summer vacation wasn't about relaxing and going on trips to the beach or visiting family, it was about getting extra school work done and complying with my father's will.  
  
One beautiful late-June morning, my Uncle Rupert came back from holiday in America. Even though he was technically poor, my father allowed him to go to foreign countries so that he didn't have to deal with his younger brother. My uncle had spent a few months in Pennsylvania, visiting a friend of his. He returned home with a million stories, and we sat in the garden as he told them to me.  
  
"Christian, you are so young." He said when he had finished.  
  
"I'm not that young, Uncle. Soon I'll be eighteen." I remarked.  
  
"But not soon enough. Oh, I wish I could take you on some adventures with me. Your father would never allow it though. Plus, you have school." He responded with a sigh.  
  
"My father would allow it if it was educational, wouldn't he?"  
  
"Christian, you see, your father thinks that I am a bad influence on you. He thinks that one of these days, you're going to spontaneously get up and go somewhere, like me."  
  
I sat back in the lawn chair, deep in thought. I didn't think that my uncle was a bad person. In fact, I thought the opposite. He lived life the way he wanted to. It seemed as though nothing held him back, and he came and went as he pleased.  
  
As it turned out, my uncle was right. My father sat me down and told me about his feelings towards my uncle. He scolded me and told me that I should stay focused on the family business instead of "foolish dreams" as he put it. I didn't have any foolish dreams at that time, but I had a feeling this wouldn't be the first time we had this discussion.  
  
I was correct in my assumption. On the eve of my 16th birthday, my father confronted me with a handshake and informed me that I would be attending a business school that year instead of the boarding school. In my heart, I had been hoping that I could keep attending the boarding school. They were offering a new course that year, 'Writing'. I figured that, since I enjoyed the works of William Shakespeare and the Ancient Greek and Roman writers, I would find the course interesting. When my father heard that I wanted to take the course, we had the 'foolish dreams' lecture once more.  
  
"Christian James, what am I going to do with you? You are sixteen years old and you still want to continue being a child!"  
  
"What are you talking about? All I want to do is take a writing course!"  
  
"That's just it, Christian. Writing is something that you take when you are a child so you can learn how to hold a pen."  
  
"Not this kind of writing Father. The course teaches you how to write stories and poetry. I find that very interesting."  
  
"What are you saying? Are you telling me you'd rather waste your time on silly verses then on the family business? It's time to act your age and you social status, Christian. A young man in this type of society should be focusing on matters like keeping the business in the family!"  
  
"But that's not what I want!" I shouted. There, I had said it. I was tired of following his orders.  
  
My father turned away from me, shaking his head, "Damn those rebellious years!"  
  
"I'm not being rebellious!" I shouted again.  
  
"Yes, you are. You will go to business school and you will inherit the business. I'll have no more on the subject until the day I hand it over to you." He said, opening the door and showing me out.  
  
Little did my father know, but I had a plan of my own. I was going to go to business school, but I was also going to take the writing course. For once, I was glad that I had spent some time getting to know my teachers. It wouldn't be a problem to take the course on the weekends, and since I was a fast learner, I figured it wouldn't be very difficult to catch up to the other pupils. 


	4. Confession

I remember my seventeenth year very well. Every morning, I would sneak off to private lessons with the writing teacher. We would study and talk about the day's topic, and he would send me on my way with an assignment. Usually, I was required to write a poem or short story in the style of the writer. After my morning lesson, I would drag myself into my father's carriage and attend the business school. I didn't really care about business. Time was often given to us for reading law books and researching in the library, but you could find me sitting at a desk, writing. It was my fascination, my passion. I put my heart and soul into my writing, and I received high praise from the teacher. One day, the teacher pulled out a heavy book with a soft brown leather jacket. Across the front, in gold calligraphy, was written, "The Works of William Shakespeare". My instructions were to read a play every day and to write how I felt about it.  
  
This started my fascination with love. Shakespeare's words of true love echoed in my brain, and I found myself reading the stories multiple times in a day. Before I knew it, three years had passed. I had finished my secret lessons when I was eighteen, and the teacher gave me two books as a gift: "The Works of William Shakespeare" and a collection of Greek and Roman mythology.  
  
My life was extremely dull at that time in my life. I was only twenty years old. Instead of going out and seeing the world before I began to work, I attended the business school every day and helped my father in the evenings. With what free time I had, I used it to study the works of famous writers and to write stories and poetry of my own. One evening, as I reclined in a chair with an Oscar Wilde book, the door of my room burst open. My father entered the room, a stern look on his face. Come to think of it, that's the way his face looked all the time.  
  
"Christian, I've come to talk to you." He announced.  
  
Setting my book down, I nodded my head.  
  
"As you know, my business will be yours one day. It is up to you to uphold the family honor and to continue in my footsteps." He informed me while sitting on my bed.  
  
"Actually, Father, there's something I must tell you." I began, with fear in my voice, "I don't want to follow in your footsteps. I want to be a writer."  
  
"A writer? What the devil are you talking about? Do you realize what a writer makes a year? You can't live on a writer's wage! Imagine what my associates would say!" my father shouted, standing up.  
  
"It's my life, Father. I want to be a writer. The world is changing and I want to change with it!" I shouted back.  
  
My father shuddered, his head shaking. He angrily mumbled, "We'll have no more talk about your silly dreams. You need to think about your future."  
  
He walked out of my room, slamming the door behind him.  
  
I angrily grabbed two suitcases from my closet. The only way I could possibly deal with all the anger that was inside of me was to take my uncle up on his word. I was going on holiday with him. He was in Edinburgh right now, and from there he would travel to Europe. I was going with him.  
  
Singing: There's some things I don't have now  
  
Some things I don't talk about  
  
These things are between myself and I  
  
In my thick skull the joker hides  
  
I shoved the books my writing teacher gave to me into the bottom of one of the suitcases, and piled shoes, socks, a journal of blank paper, pens, pencils, and money on top of the books.  
  
Singing: There's consequences I'm scared to taste  
  
Cold hard truths I can't face  
  
These days are different than the past  
  
Reflections change in the looking glass  
  
I thought to myself, "How can my father be so selfish? I'm not perfect, and I don't want the business! Why can't he let me live life the way I want?"  
  
Singing: And everywhere I look there's something to learn  
  
A sliver of truth from every bridge we burn  
  
A hatful of quarters and a naked song  
  
Don't answer the question of where we belong  
  
In the other suitcase, I piled clothing. Focusing angry thoughts onto my father, I cursed and, while I knew it was morally wrong, I enjoyed doing it. Yes, he was my father, but he was also the man who was so stuck in his mind that he couldn't see the light. He couldn't see the changing world.  
  
Singing: How come birds don't fall from the sky when they die?  
  
How come birds always look for a quiet place to hide?  
  
These words can't explain what I feel inside  
  
Like birds I need a quiet place to hide  
  
These independent moves I make  
  
This confidence I try to fake  
  
You can hear the beating of my heart  
  
But not a feather falling in the dark  
  
I was so sick and tired of being his puppet. I was his trophy son; the one who was going to be the heir to the James family fortune. It wasn't my dream.  
  
Singing: And everything I hear never makes any sense  
  
Another old prophet perched on the fence  
  
A cupful of pencils and a self help guru  
  
Don't answer the question of what I am to you  
  
I finished packing and rang the bell. The butler approached, and with a nod he took my bags and headed downstairs. I followed him, and within minutes I was speeding away in the carriage to the train station. I could only hope that my uncle would still be in Scotland.  
  
*Songs used:  
  
"Birds" – Elton John 


	5. Remember Me

The train stopped only after what seemed like a few minutes. I sat up in my chair and looked around. Spotting the conductor, I motioned for him, confused.  
  
"Sir, where are we?" I asked quietly. "We're just taking a stop, that's all. It's a chance to stretch your legs. There's about half an hour before we take off again, and then we'll be in Paris." He answered, walking away.  
  
How long had I been reminiscing? I jumped out of my seat, eager to take my first few steps in France. The train station was filled with travelers, vendors, and shops. Reaching into my wallet, I pulled out a few francs and headed for the stores. A dimly lit, antique shop beckoned to me. The gas lamps were burning low and the walls were covered in oil landscapes and delicate, feminine portraits.  
  
"May I help you monsieur?" a gentleman asked. It was presumably the shopkeeper. The voice started me, and I turned around to see a middle-aged man with a moustache and a pipe in his mouth. I nervously gulped, "These are some lovely paintings you have. Who are the artists?" "All of the works here are from local artists. There are a few from Paris though that just arrived last week. Come, let me show you." The man said, walking into the back room. I followed him and the shopkeeper unveiled two amazing paintings. "These are wonderful, what are they called?" I asked, admiring the artist's work. The shopkeeper pointed to the painting of a woman sitting down with her bare back to the viewer and said, "This one is called 'La Toilette'." "What's this other one?" "This is called 'At the Moulin de la Galette', monsieur." "Who is the artist?" "His name is Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec. He lives in a tiny town called Monmartre, near Paris." "That's where I'm going!" "Really? What are you going to do there?" "I'm going to write about truth, beauty, freedom, and love."  
  
The shopkeeper chuckled, shook hands with me, and walked back to the front of the shop. He smiled and stated, "Keep your eyes open and you'll learn a lot." Puzzled, I thanked the man and walked back to the train. Sleep hit me and soon I began to dream about my trip to Scotland.  
  
[FLASHBACK]  
  
I followed my uncle into the town of Perth, Scotland, located in the central Highlands. Carriages and a little bit of walking allowed me to find him strolling around town, minding his own business. "Rupert James!" I shouted, running towards him. "Christian?" he said, looking shocked. We embraced and he grabbed my shoulders, "Let me take a look at you. It's been so long since I've seen you and you're growing up so fast!" "I'm nearly twenty-one, Uncle." "Don't I know it! My boy, why are you here? Did something happen at home?" I explained the situation to my uncle. He nodded and laughed occasionally. "I can remember your grandfather, may he rest in peace, telling me the exact same things. He always wanted me to be just like your father. I wanted to see the world before I settled down, but then I discovered that there was so much to see that I didn't want to get married." He said with a smirk on his face. "I just don't know what to do. Can I travel with you for a little bit?" I asked quietly. "Christian, I know that you would love to come running to me with every problem you have, but it's time that you learned how to face your fears. You need to tell your father how you feel. You have to go back." "I don't want to go back! Can't I write him a letter or something?"  
  
The argument stopped there. The next day, my uncle put me on a train back to London. My father was waiting for me, an angry scowl upon his withered, old face. "Christian James, I am very disappointed in you. How dare you leave in the middle of the night without leaving me any warning! What do you have to say for yourself?" he shouted once we were inside. I hesitated, unsure of what to say. Yes, I was scared. This man was the only parent I had left, and I didn't want to abandon him and my sister just yet. "I'm sorry, sir." I replied weakly, and retired to my room.  
  
[PRESENT DAY]  
  
I woke up, a cold sweat running down my face. The train rushed by the French countryside, next to fields of yellow and green. I remembered the look on my father's face as I was leaving only a few days earlier. My sister, who was to be a bride in a loveless marriage, was dabbing her eyes with a lace handkerchief while my father rubbed at his beard and stared at me. "Monmartre is a village of sin!" he warned me, "Why on Earth do you want to go there?" "I want to be a writer, father. I'm going to write about truth, beauty, freedom, and love!" I responded. "Always this ridiculous obsession with love!" he said with an agitated sigh. As I picked up my bags and headed out the door, I turned around to see my father's face soften, as if he was going to cry. "Good luck. Lord knows you'll need it there." He said, closing the door.  
  
I gazed at the passing landscape, the images of my family running through my mind. The lyrics came out softly, as I almost whispered them to myself. Remember me for what I was, not as I am now I'll merge into the shadows, I'll disappear into the rain Remember me for what I was, not as you see me now I'll walk out into tomorrow, I'll melt into the sun  
  
I could see my sister, walking down the aisle, hiding her tears under a downy veil. Everyone would be thinking they were tears of happiness, but in reality, they were tears of pain.  
  
Remember me for what I was, a glance in your direction at the right time A smile breaking into a crescent moon, a word of reassurance I'll protect myself against the cold last of tongues and lies I'll blend in with the crowd I'll disperse into a stream I'll fade into the darkness, I'll turn and walk away  
  
My mother's face, that angelic image of porcelain skin, emerald eyes, and soft brown hair, filled my head. I loved her.  
  
Remember me for what I was, as one world breaks in two I'll follow my own stricts, I'll forge another path Remember me for what I was, no, what I couldn't be Remember me for what I was And shall never be again  
  
The train clacked away, bringing me back to my senses. I fell asleep once again, remembering my last years in London.  
  
To Be Continued.  
  
Song Used: "Leaving" by Anne Clark 


End file.
